


birds in flight

by Lvslie



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: ;), Anxiety Disorder, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Hermann, Dancing Around What Needs to Be Said, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Much-Needed Hugs, Mutual Pining, Stockholm, Tension, after So Much Denial, and a good ending for good measure, ciNNAMON BUNS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: ‘But, ah, it all just comes down to one thing, doesn’t it? You, on the verge of leaving. Leaving somewhere, anywhere. And you cannot. That’s a simple fact: this mustn’t be a circle, I refuse … we … I wasn’t even aware we were a possibility still. So, goddamn it, Newton, I am not letting you go. You’re going to stay here. And if, if you must go, because of some goddamned ticket or some such, I’ll go with you. Schedule compatibility be damned.’[Written for the prompt 'Just this once' – Newt and Hermann return to Stockholm after the drift, and try to tie the loose ends.]





	birds in flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoloXam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/gifts).



> Long story short, I misread the prompt and wrote a story, because i’m a little idiot. Let us just assume that the prompt ‘Just this once’ was, indeed, number 82 and not number 83.
> 
> That being said, I’ve been low-key thinking of Newt and Hermann going back to Stockholm after saving the world in a delicious sort of a bookend-coming-full-circle thing and accidentally sorting things out for ... some time now.
> 
> Then this little [companion drawing](http://lvslie.tumblr.com/post/174700552402/birds-in-flight-its-a-general-rule-that-all-the) happened  
> ... and then, the story itself.
> 
> [Holo, I'm sorry for messing up the prompt and hope this was worth the wait <3]

 

 _And his hands?_  
His hands keep turning into birds and  
flying away from him. _Him being you._  
Yes. _Do you love yourself?_ I don’t have to  
answer that. It should matter.

 

* * *

 

Cherry trees are blooming with a disconcertingly lush pink in Kungsträdgården, clashing with the clean stark minimalism of the buildings and the stinging air.

Newton exhales, emerging out of the metro station. He clutches the still-warm package to his chest protectively and looks around in a daze. There it is: spacious, easy-aired, blue-lit Stockholm stretching across in front of him in all its fresh, absolutely- _fucking_ -terrifying glory, and surrounding him like an eerily sunny and vivid nightmare.

In hindsight, his impromptu decision to flee from the lecture concluding the conference seems equal parts a wise move and sheer lunacy.

He doubts Hermann has as much as noticed: seated a couple of rows from Newt, wrinkly-browed and very pointedly _focused_ , ready to contradict whatever bullshit they’ve been told — and heedless of Newt’s increasingly distraught squirming and twiddling with his bracelets.

Newt bites into one of the buns thoughtfully. _Perhaps for the better._

The remaining time proved just enough for Newt to take a quick tram from Stadshus and into the city, collect a couple of the more delectable local oddities and make his loping way back to the sunlit docks, with full intention of loitering there until Hermann decides to crawl back into the world.

He ambles back along the water, aiming in the vague direction of the looming spidery Stadshus. He tries to split his jittery attention between the colourful facade of the buildings lining the bank of Södermalm on the other side of the shimmeringly blue water, eating the sweet bun while it’s still _warm_ and typing an incongruent and long-overdue message to Hermann.

He finally spots a convenient bench nearby, distance enough from the city hall to remain unspotted by other potential deserters. The air is biting cold, hyper-lucid, an odd mixture of blue and bright yellow. Newton shivers in his jacket (not leather, sadly, his leather jacket _is_ and will continue to be missed). His hands cup the paper coffee mug and _kanelbullar_ from a considerably overpriced (but appropriately indulgently sweet-smelling) coffeeshop  he’s strayed into.

Thing is, ever since the drift, he hasn’t been feeling very _well_ , and another thing is, he’s still not even remotely close to feeling _well_ now.

Stockholm — perhaps unsurprisingly, Newt is willing to concede — doesn’t quite help. He feels even more high-strung than usually, even twitchier and tenser, and the morbid familiarity of the surroundings does little to alleviate the state. 

Years and years earlier, _lifetimes_ it now seems, he’s spent a number of similar bright-lit blue days exploring the crooks and niches of the very city on his own, if only to try and banish the holler of disillusionment and rejection from his overworked head. 

Forgetting? Ah, no suck luck.

And possibly the saddest thing is how seamlessly and how _much_ the city _resembles_ Hermann himself to Newton, making the swift, achy association unavoidable: smooth arcs, angular tall shapes, something sinewy and geometrical combined with a scattering of old-age accents that border with outright old-fashioned.

It’s a general rule that all the things Newton grows fond of come with a sharp edge, and all of them make him despise himself, just a little, for allowing this, for picking it over and over again. Maybe it’s karma. Maybe if you’re kind of really brilliant, you have to really suck at something else.

He peers sullenly in the direction of Stadshus and — _ah_.

There _he_ is, interrupting Newton’s troubled thoughts: dressed somewhat more smartly than typically, in a plain black coat and a plain grey scarf, resting against his cane and blinking uncertainly at the sizzling water.

Hermann looks vaguely lost, vaguely cold, all his sharp edges mellowed by the light and softly persistent wind ruffling up his unwittingly unkempt hair.

_And_ , Newton thinks, _out of all things,_ _I still like_ you _the most. You asshole._

It’s tragic, really, how naturally the vision that instantly seizes him comes by this point: an entirely irrational wish to sidle up sneakily, wrap his arms around Hermann from behind and push his hands into the pockets of the flappy coat; rest his scruffy chin on Hermann’s bony shoulder and then maybe stand like that for a little while, eyes closed in the sun, listening to Hermann’s breathing, audible over the sea.

An uncertain, _familiar_ voice comes drifting, ‘Newton?’ 

Newt opens his eyes and registers that Hermann is striding purposefully towards him, cane clattering rhythmically on the pavement. He shuffles on the bench, gathering up his pre-lunch and patting the place beside himself invitingly. 

Hermann looks a little sheepish for some reason, oddly cautious among the strange surroundings and brisk wind. 

‘I thought perhaps you’ve gone back already,’ he muses as he draws waveringly closer to the bench and then hovers next to it, dark and lanky and jutting out against the bright light, ‘I didn’t see you after the lecture — and your, ah, _episodes_ came to my mind —’

‘Nah,’ Newt fibs, voice warm, waving his hand dismissively in the air. He can’t much help it: there’s something simply uprooting in the fact that they are both here, in this improbable _parallel_ , and Hermann has _thought_ to seek him out after missing him in a crowd of strangers. It seems to make the white lie worth it.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I needed some space, is all. Gets kinda loud in here, you know,’ he says half-apologetically and tapping his left temple with a small smile.

With an odd flinching-blinking expression flashing through his face — which Newton has learned to recognise as him swift-processing the given information and arriving at some sort of conclusion — Hermann relents at last and sits carefully down, folding his gloved hands neatly on the handle of his cane and staring ahead. 

‘I texted you, too,’ Newt pipes up, narrowing his eyes in the sun so that he can trace the sloping outline of Hermann’s face more easily. ‘Not that you ever _check_ your goddamned phone, you derelict curmudgeon — and _plus,_ you were taking _forever_ , I was beginning to think maybe you’ve gone back to the hotel for a romantic lie-in with your newest paper and dozed off or … whatever.’

‘No, I _wouldn’t_ ,’ Hermann says shortly, peculiarly solemn, and ignoring the jibe. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, either: the usual bite of his speech does occasionally give way to disturbingly profound sincerity, which leaves Newton frustratingly _disarmed_ in lieu of annoyed _._

‘We were supposed to have lunch, weren’t we?’ Hermann continues glumly, sniffing — in spite of the scarf wound tightly round his neck he _looks_ blatantly cold, so much that Newt kind of wants to — _to_ — ah, better not go down that road. ‘But alas, I see you have already eaten.’

‘What, this?’ Broken out from the sequence of trying to fight a ridiculous impulse of _doing_ _something_ to warm Hermann up, Newt rustles the paper bag questioningly. Hermann peers at him with an ambiguous half-a-blink. 

‘S’just coffee,’ Newt mutters, licking his lips from the crumbs. ‘I need an, uh, kick.’ He sets the coffee carefully — if, _shit_ , just a bit shakily, but perhaps not quite enough to betray him just yet, even to Hermann’s hyper-perceptive goddamned eyes tracing his movements — aside and plucks at the paper bag. ‘And, uh, something sweet. Cinnamon buns, kinda a big thing here. Got one for you, no worries, cause you’re thin enough to audition for a hanger at IKEA.’

He holds out the round, powdered bun to Hermann who blinks at it once again, clearly torn between getting annoyed at this or that from what Newt’s said and accepting it, and finally yields, reaching out with a hesitant gloved hand. 

‘Thank you,’ Hermann mutters, proceeding to stare at the bun held between his thumb and forefinger plaintively without taking a bite for several long moments.

‘Alas, you seem under the weather, good sir,’ Newt throws at him, partly to distract himself from analysing _each goddamned little detail_ composing the lines and curves of Hermann’s profile, and partly because his hands and knees have started … trembling, just _slightly_ , once again, and the faint grasp on the situation he’s forced himself to gather at Hermann’s arrival begins to dissipate at an alarming pace. 

He grips the coffee cup and clenches his jaw, staring intently at the point where his hands touch the still-warm cardboard and noting that shit, _shit_ , he doesn’t even feel it anymore, the point of connection to the immediate reality thinning into something elusive and distant. He inhales sharply, quietly, still vehement to not let himself disintegrate, miserably hunted by Hermann’s — of all people, of all fucking _people_ — unescapable presence. He’s. So close.

But — _too_ close? No, Newt wouldn’t _say_.

‘I was _not_ the one who fled from a lecture,’ Hermann bites back, sniffing once again, and all Newt can do is shrug, half-heartedly, without moving his eyes an inch. He’s breathing through his nose, deliberately, steadily. He can do it. He _can_.

‘Yeah,’ he hears his own voice, gone weirdly distant. ‘But I’m not exactly … hiding it.’ And god, there it is, that cracking of vowels, that something-helpless in the high-pitched lilt. ‘And it’s. Hah. Not like I’m ever quite … over the weather, yeah? It’s just better or … worse.’

There’s a moment of silence which Newt perceives as interval enough for the treacherous system of his body to further betray him with a hitched breath and a twitch of knees. He continues to avoid Hermann’s gaze, feeling it crawl up his arm and fix itself somewhere by the ear.

‘Is it … _worse_ , now?’ Hermann ventures after a moment, _his_ voice startlingly quiet.

‘Kinda,’ Newt mutters, wincing. ‘A little bit. Been worse, though.’

Another while of the silence, the dizzying wind and the sun. Newt takes a deep breath. 

Then, ‘Can I … _help_ , somehow?’ Hermann asks haltingly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

Newt shrugs once again, looking down at his twitching knees, trying not to show howabsolutely fucking overwhelming he finds the question alone. _Yes_ , he thinks, erratically. _You could calculate a way to turn back time, get all the way back here, eight years ago, and look at me, and see through all my bullshit and accept it. Not walk away. Or you could stop acting like it’s different now. I hate hope. You could hold me._

Newton shrugs and looks up from his knees, at the slanting rise and fall of warm-toned buildings lining the bank of Södermalm. 

The silence lingers, the wind picks up, a seagull flaps by with a shrill wail — and it’s all _almost_ a pleasant change from the perpetual electric charge of insults they throw back and forth. There’s something broken in that frequency, Newt knows, has been ever since the drift: a small wisp of oozing, drowsy silence inviting itself between them. A small splinter of something _else_ , that he desperately doesn’t want to make the mistake of mislabelling.

Right now, Hermann is narrowing his eyes in the sun like a faded black family cat of a particularly wretched disposition, _still_ mysteriously adored by the kid. Newton plucks at the hem of his jacket.

And suddenly, something snaps and gives way.

‘Well, I mean. You could, uh, give me a hug?’ he hears his own voice before his brain has a _chance_ to process.

Something in the air changes rapidly, disrupting the earlier lull of — _softness? maybe a pretence of it_. Hermann tenses up, perceivably even what with Newt trying to look anywhere but at him — and everything starts losing colour and shape, and Newt keeps cursing and cursing himself, trying to sink inwards and _never_ resurface.

But then,

‘How would it — would that not make it worse?’ Hermann says hesitantly, aiming rapid blinks at some spot on the pavement — a tic, Newt suddenly realises, picked up from _him_ instead of being innate to Hermann.

_Relax_ , Newt would tell him, were he not inches from shaking.

‘No,’ is what he says instead, _again_ utterly unthinking, and feels a hot rush of blood humming in his ears as he can’t believe he _has_ , and he can’t believe he’s following _through_ , ‘I mean, it’s a _…_ thing that humans do, you know. A, a _nice_ thing.’

Hermann first stares, mouth a thin line, eyes as dark and unfathomable as ever.

Then he mutters a tight-lipped, ‘Alright’ and — and holy fuck, and _leans in_.

‘Cool,’ Newt manages to stutter out.

It’s not nice, god, not even close to _nice_ ; where Newton is softer and decisively _warmer_ , Hermann is soothingly solid and lanky, stabilising in all his familiar crooks and sinews. It feels ridiculous. Feels good. Right. It’s not nice, it’s — _it’s._ God _._

Newt exhales, feeling the relent, slowly. ‘Thanks,’ he says faintly, not opening his eyes. ‘Really. That’s a … _thanks_.’

‘No … _problem_ at all,’ Hermann replies at length, voice muffled. When he leans away, he won’t meet Newton’s eyes, but for a moment Newton spies a scarce flush of colour on the high cheekbones; some air of a softer kind of embarrassment than he’s used to seeing in Hermann, contained in the way he looks down and away.

And for a second, just a _second_ , Newt lets himself stray into the sizzling flurry of sensation and colour of his hyper-visual mind, lets himself delve into a non-existent reality where he gets to _keep_  this kind of thing going, indefinitely. Some small parallel universe where he gets to stick around, have the cold thin serious Hermann at hand long enough to soften the lines of his face into a smile, nudge out a laugh, take off the edge and mute the trilled r; remain _in touch_ — literally — so that neither has to come back to the sobering thought of remaining _alone_.

‘Let’s have that lunch,’ is what he says aloud, almost content with trapping the brief fantasy in his memory before either of them has time enough to spoil it with this or that rash word. He rises to his feet, step springy, and holds out a hand to pull Hermann up with him, into motion, into distraction.  
****

Hermann, in quiet and miraculous agreement, accepts it without a _word_.

 

* * *

 

The coffeeshop, Hermann notes wryly after they come up the street — short after an unexpectedly _taxing_ and miserable detour through the blooming gardens, which passes among the incessant buzz of Hermann’s hoarse complaints about his apparent allergies that Newton has failed to take into account and Newton’s irritated comebacks — looks exactly as overpriced as he would expect Newton’s pick to be. In response Newt suggests he take his lunch at the Skansen with the rest of undomesticated animals, and Hermann remains stolidly and furiously silent all the way up the three steps.

Nevertheless, the lingering scent of warm dough and cinnamon that pervades the air seems to melt away some of his chitin exoskeleton, Newt notes — a notch smugly — because once they are seated by a tiny round table by a tall window, Hermann travels innocently back into dryly commenting their surroundings — a good sign if Newt’s ever seen one.

‘I must admit,’ Hermann says, and the bastard _does_ actually manage to sound reluctant as he narrows his eyes at the interior and removes his gloves meticulously, ‘this is rather pleasant.’

‘And the herald angels sang,’ says Newt sarcastically, chin propped up on one hand, ‘and shed tears of joy upon the words. _Gloria_ , Herr Gottlieb finds it _rather pleasant_! Are you actually going to grace us with the smaller mercies on a daily basis now?’

‘Don’t push it, Newton,’ Hermann replies curtly, throwing Newt a passing glance that could possibly be described as _vaguely amused_ by someone very generous. Newton holds up his hands defensively.

The waitress who approaches them seconds later looks like a prototype model of a Swedish woman, he notes vaguely: tall and fair-skinned, with pale hair and eyes and a nearly flawless pronunciation. He straightens up from his slouch and clears his throat, trying not to sound too incomprehensible.

‘Yeah, um, hi, so I’ll have an Americano —’

‘No.’

The word has an astounding edge of finality to itself, and — thrown off balance — both Newton and the waitress turn to stare expectantly at Hermann, who does not look embarrassed in the slightest.

‘What?’ Newt says.

Disregarding him with a little too much élan to pass as unintentional, Hermann shifts slightly in his seat and addresses the waitress politely in his most pretentious over-vowelled tones. 

‘He’ll have no such thing,’ he declares, indicating Newton with a sparse flick of his wrist. ‘Coffee, yes, but _do_ make sure to have it decaffeinated. _And_ unsweetened. I’ll have a cup of tea, black.’

It doesn’t happen too often, even what with Hermann Gottlieb habituating his lab on a daily basis, but Newt well and truly _can’t_ believe his ears. ‘What the _fu_ —’

‘And that’ll be all, thank you,’ Hermann tells the vaguely amused, vaguely sheepish waitress with an infuriating tight little smile. He then turns to face Newt once again and proclaims, calmly, ‘You have already consumed entirely too much caffeine for the time being as it is, and I simply won’t have you spiralling further into an episode _just_ because of reckless overstimulation.’

For a long, _long_ moment, Newt finds himself fucking _speechless_ — he’s indignant, yes, positively furious, because _Hermann, you sanctimonious little shit_ , you’ve just _crossed each and every fucking line,_ but also — also —

He finally manages to splutter, half-vicious and half-incoherent, ‘You — you simply _won’t_ — what, you absolute — you, since when do you even _care_?’

Hermann levels him with an impassive — if challenging — stare.

‘If you think,’ he says, and someone that wasn’t Newton Geiszler could easily mistake his tone for _mild_ , probably, ‘that out of all the orders I’ve had delivered to the lab, even a _half_ was as spiked with stimulants and taste-enhancers as you would have liked to think, you would be severely mistaken.’

And it’s a bit too much, that. Too much to safely process. Irrationally, the first thing Newt wants to blurt out is _and I thought all of Hong Kong’s coffee is just disgusting by default_ , but what actually comes tumbling out of his mouth is a strangled, 

‘Hermann, what the _fuck_?’

‘Oh, e _xcuse_ me,’ Hermann snaps, by now clearly exasperated as he viciously swipes a nonexistent layer of crumbs off the minimalistic pine table, ‘for making sure you don’t die of cardiac arrest in the next five years, Newton, which — I can guarantee you — would be the case otherwise. As you, a biologist with six doctorates, as you like to point out relentlessly, should be well aware of.’

Newt is apoplectic.

‘What else?’ he demands, shrilly, throwing up his hands. ‘Vitamins in my fucking cereal? Sneaking up at night to have me vaccinated? The goddamned oranges you keep everywhere, what are you trying to develop, some sort of Pavlovian response —’

‘Oh, don’t be so childish,’ Hermann snarls, interrupting him and casting a wary glance around.

‘I’m fucking _trying_ , but what with you playing mother hen, I mean, it’s only _logical_ —’

‘You, _logical_ ,’ Hermann scoffs, and the pitch of his voice is raised as well. ‘As if! I can only imagine —’

The sentence is cut off rather spectacularly with Hermann freezing like a still of a movie, the expression of his face becoming a sudden and disconcerting blank slate as he stares at the table between them.

For a moment, Newt is too wrapped up in something like a shriek of sound and sensation and whirring thoughts in his head to understand it but then it hits him — what Hermann is looking at are _his_ _hands_ , shaking so violently over the table that he’s managed to rip the sweetener packet he’s been toying with in half and spill the white grains jerkily on the previously-clean surface.

‘Oh, shit,’ Newton mutters vaguely, something like a tidal wave of dull heavy realisation washing over the chaos, ‘I’ll —’

He’s interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, whose professional attempt at distributing their coffee and trying to remove the sugary mess along with Newton’s increasingly awkward attempts to shoo her away and do it himself somehow manages to make everything even _worse_. After an agonising convoluted moment of garbled apologies and the distressed waitress’s final surrender, Newton is left with a violent feeling of defeat, nauseous and jittery to the point where everything becomes kind of _too much_ to look at. Groaning, he pushes his face into his hands, elbows propped on the stinging grains of sugar. It’s the little things, they say. Little things causing the bigger fuck-ups, too. Ah, _goddamn it_. 

But he doesn’t get his chance to work himself into a state of further frenzy, because almost as soon as the fuss settles, there’s a quiet sound of a cup being pushed across a table, and then there are hands, disarmingly steady and patient, tugging at Newton’s wrists and drawing them away from his face. 

Disoriented, Newton blinks up at Hermann, who’s leaning forward across the table and — which Newt registers with a slight lag and a slight stutter of the heart — saying, in a low voice, ‘Newton, it’s alright. Nothing’s happened. Newton. It’s _alright_.’

He still has him by both wrists when Newton slowly nods along to a trembling sequence of _inhale-pause-exhale,_ Hermann’s thumbs rubbing a circular pattern onto the skin of his hands. He blinks a couple of times more, trying to wrap his head around the onslaught of stimuli, _each_ shocking: that this is PDA at its finest, that this isn’t something that has any sort of precedent at all, that there’s a steaming cup of hot water that has spilled over and Hermann isn’t paying it any attention, that _his_ hands aren’t shaking that much, not anymore. Hermann’s hands are warm and unexpectedly soft sans the gloves, and his touch leaves Newton’s skin tingling with a peculiar sensation he doesn’t have much history of feeling. 

Newton bites his lip.

‘Sorry,’ he says vaguely, unable to reconcile feeling with sight, unable to proceed from the simple fact of Hermann’s hands covering his own until the other man withdraws them and straightens in his seat. Newt rushes to catch his cup and tug it closer instinctively, seeking refuge in distraction.

‘There’s no need to be,’ Hermann says simply, voice mercifully neutral as he reaches for a napkin and wipes his cup clean and then proceeds to brew his tea. ‘There’s the question, however, of how frank you’ve been with me when you said _you_ are alright.’

Newt laughs faintly, eyes skittering to the window as he absent-mindedly rubs at the left one, a habit picked-up after the drift and transformed into a regular tic at hyperspeed, ‘Yeah, no, I’m fine,’ he asserts hurriedly. ‘I mean, come on, it’s been years of us cooped up in that stinky lab together, you _know_ how I get, there’s the swings and shit —’

‘I am familiar with the mechanism, yes,’ Hermann interjects, a notch irately, tapping his finger on the rim of his cup, ‘but not the reason behind this particular instance. Is something … triggering you?’

_Christ_ , Newt thinks, biting down another involuntary laugh which would be only just short of hysterical. _What’s with the fucking caretaker mode? Why … here?_

And yet there he is, seconds later, stuttering, ‘Yeah, I … guess? The, uh, city. Maybe.’

‘Stockholm?’ Hermann asks, sounding surprised again, as though he didn’t expect the answer. He leans back in his chair, frowning, ‘I wouldn’t — well — you’ve displayed quite the knowledge of its topography and … specialties, so far.’

Newt’s thumb traces patterns on his cup: blue, with an oddly geometrical design of the handle. _Is it IKEA?_ he thinks idly and picks it up to peer at the bottom. _It is. Now, that’s what I call consistency._

‘I know a backhanded compliment when I see one, Herms, ta,’ he mutters, still inspecting the bottom of the cup, glad of a proper excuse not to look at Hermann. ‘And Jeez, I _like_ it. A lot, really. I kinda hate it, too, though, it’s that … weird ambiguous relationship we’re having, you know.’ 

He pauses, catching himself, then sets the cup back on the table. ‘And anyway, well, last time I’ve been here, I’ve had plenty of time for solitary exploring. We got _acquainted_.’

There’s a silence that is too heavy by _far_ to be disguised as inconsequential. And sure enough, Hermann soon asks, tightly, ‘And when was that?’

Newt clenches his jaw. ‘You _know_ when that was.’

‘You don’t mean —’

‘Fuck you, Hermann, yes, I _mean_.’ Newton snaps, and the silence that follows is _ringing_.But he doesn’t let Hermann stew in it, instead spitting out, ‘What is it, a goddamned inquisition? _Yes_ , this is it. Eight years ago when you were sitting on your bloody  train  to Oslo, and I was busy being seasick, shipped off God-knows-where to kick off the decade-to-be at the PPCD, would you _believe_ a version of reality where we’ve fucking come _full circle_ to actually have a — a — _whatever this is_ — in a goddamned coffeeshop and chat about my mental wellbeing?’

He realises his voice has risen in both pitch and volume, he realises there are people actually beginning to _stare_ , and he realises Hermann has tensed up enough to signal he’s growing significantly uncomfortable. _To his credit_ , Newt thinks darkly, staring hard at the table and trying to cool down, _he’s not hissing and hushing yet._

Instead, Hermann clears his throat. ‘I don’t _tend_ to allocate much time to making wishful predictions of the unforeseeable —’

‘ _Wishful?_ ’ Newt laughs, by this point hardly ever caring about how shrill he must sound. ‘Now, that’s rich, man. Wishful! You don’t remember, Hermann? Really? Everything went to _shit_ right here, the big reveal and the bigger let-down. You let me know how much you despise me explicitly enough to know there’d be no wishing —’

‘I do not _despise_ you,’ Hermann retorts instantly, sounding ridiculously offended. Newt winces and rubs at his face once again. 

‘Yeah, well, no shit, _now_ you don’t,’ he says tetchily, squirming. ‘And I mean, wow, _thanks,_ I guess. Good to hear that and so on, I don’t hate you either. But what I mean is, you’ve … habituated, or whatever. Some reverse twisted Stockholm … syndrome. But even _you_ have to admit, we did have a whole other thing going on before all … this.’

Hermann starts, quietly, ‘I don’t —’

Newton mimics the stilted pattern of his voice, ‘No, of course _you_ wouldn’t _,_ not with your —’

Hermann’s voice grows annoyed as he interrupts, ‘ _Why_ is it that you always insist on presuming you know what I intend to say before I do, and then act annoyed when, invariably, it turns out to be inaccurate, is _beyond_ m —’

‘People always _presume_ things about each other, Hermann, get over it,’ Newton snaps.

There’s a moment of silence in which Hermann stills entirely and a sharp strike of fear grips Newton, because shit, now _he’s_ crossed a line, he should never say _that_ , not to Hermann, not when he wants to preserve whatever it is that they have _now_ —

Then Hermann says, in a tone that is almost studiously collected,‘I’ll … wager a guess that you’re not, in fact, trying to be purposefully vicious at this moment, Newton, but rather attempting to prove _I_ have presumed something about you. Am I right?’

Ah, _fuck_ it. Newt would take annoyed or — or, god, _even_ mistakenly hurt — Hermann over this overly-perceptive-and-nosy one anytime.

‘Well, haven’t you?’ he muses, nettled, half-shrugging, half-rubbing at his eyes to buy himself some time from looking up.

Through his fingers, he can see Hermann’s pale hands tightening around the blue IKEA cup. And then, as though acting directly in pursuit of disarming Newton completely, he speaks out — sounding stymied, almost contrite, unbelievably so, ‘I don’t believe one can atone for all past sins by one severely depth-lacking admission of guilt, but nevertheless, for causing you to assume judgement on my part, _partially_ rightly, I am — and will _continue_ to be — irretrievably sorry. For what that’s worth.’

Shaken more than he would care to admit, Newton can’t help but look up and meet Hermann’s dreadfully open expression for a whole unbearable moment before quickly letting his gaze skitter to the window.

‘Worth … uh, more than you’d think, probably,’ he mutters, biting at his lip with so much force it _hurts_. ‘And uh, I’m — sorry, too. I can be an ass sometimes, I know that. And shit, most of the time, I … I don’t even _mean_ it.’

Hermann shifts and sighs quietly, nodding — he’s looking down onto his hands now, as Newt can see in the faint blurry reflection of his profile shimmering in the window. 

‘But,’ Newton blurts out before he can stop himself, ‘I _do_ think you’ve wished most of the things you’d have _me_ assume about you into existence.’ 

Hermann stiffens.

‘Is that so?’ he says tightly, any tinge of emotion gone from his voice. 

It’s a shiver of cold somewhere in his ribcage, a little sinking feeling, but once he’s started, Newton is doomed to follow through, ‘Yeah.’

‘That’s curious,’ Hermann says, inevitably, _bitingly_ , ‘as my habitual impression of your attitude towards me seems to outwardly _contradict_ it —’

‘Teasing’s teasing, Hermann, I’m talking important things. Things that _matter_.’

‘And _what_ is that massively important thing you seem to think _I_ have assumed about you that you haven’t about _me_?’ Hermann snaps. _Ah — so much for apologising, then._

Newton can’t help but tear his eyes away from the window and raise his eyebrows. ‘Seriously?’

He’s met with Herman’s steely stare. ‘Do I _seem_ to be joking? Would you _presume_ I am joking?’

‘You’re an asshole,’ Newton says, harshly, and he’s shocked to Hermann visibly flinch. It takes longer — whole damn _seconds_ — for his expression to settle and for the response to be delivered, and the delay is enough to make Newt dizzy all over again.

‘Clearly, I _must_ be, or at least simply delusional. All day, I’ve been trying to … to be civil, and in return I get … this,’ Hermann inhales, ‘so clearly, there must be something wrong with either methodology or aim. I’ve thought … just once. Just _once_ , we could ditch this ridiculous game and treat each other like human beings. Clearly, I’ve been wrong.’

Rendered momentarily speechless once again, Newton opens his mouth and stares.

Then he says, shakily, ‘I can’t … I can’t fucking believe you. I’m — I’m not treating you like a human being? _I’M_ not treating you? Because — because, yeah, I’m just doing fucking great today, Hermann, I’m performing a fucking skit for everyone in this coffeeshop to get myself some attention. A game _,_ he says — dude, my ulterior motives really are a goddamned blast in your fascinating rendition of them,’ he bites out, voice bitter. ‘I dread to think what you must think my personal life looks like.’

‘Don’t put words into my mouth, I did not and never _would_ insinuate that your mental health is by any means a by-product of your wanting attention,’ Hermann says crossly, his hand tightening on the table, knuckles gone white. ‘As for the other issues, then _well_ , am I really so off the mark?’

Newt is staring at him, breathing heavily, clutching at his cup and trying to make sense of the great uncoiling that is gradually taking place in his chest — something is giving way, yes: he’s been feeling tired and overwhelmed and unstable for what feels like days on end now, but now something loud and overpowering surfaces in a rising tide: pent-up, long-stifled, exhausting frustration, yearning to spill out and Newt suddenly realises that he has _no more_ in him to hold it in.

‘Actually … actually, yeah. Yeah, you fucking _are_ ,’ he says, abruptly and sets down the cup with a sickening crash, startling Hermann. ‘If we’re fucking bonding today,if we have to do it, _here_ of all places — okay. Yeah. Here’s the story: I’m interested in someone. Someone who’d rather I didn’t exist. Sucks, but that’s life for you, isn’t it, Hermann?’

It comes out hissing, high-pitched, almost vicious, but he can’t help it.

‘I’m not sure I’m following,’ Hermann says, in a changed voice, and there’s some other subtle change in the expression of his face, something that goes beyond surprise and something that Newton has no stomach for analysing.

‘It’s not complicated. And not even particularly urgent,’ he adds abruptly, _already_ regretting something along the lines of _everything,_ and starting to feel violently nauseous. ‘Been at it for, uh, _years_ , now.’

He almost thinks, _almost_ thinks it’ll be buried under the automatic, safe embarrassment and quickly talked-over, that he’s somehow managed to shun Hermann back away into his his no-personal-stuff policy, when the tragic happens.

‘And … and this person —’ Hermann begins, stiffly, and Newton shuts his eyes. 

‘Oh my god,’ he says, incredulously. ‘Oh my _god_.’

_No, he — no. Just no._

Hermann tenses even further, and his voice grows high-pitched, ‘This is _just_ what I meant, I am _trying_ to —’

‘Hermann … Jesus. _Christ_ , I know I say this a lot, but for that supposed mental capacity of yours, you’re _really_ unbelievably stupid sometimes.’

‘ _Newton_ —’ 

But Newt is far, far too gone to stop right now. ‘This _person_ , my ass, are you even for real? Rewind, okay, and _think_ this entire fucking absurd conversation — no, this whole _day_ — through.’

Hermann blinks, thrown off balance, then frowns at Newt. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says, almost stubbornly.

‘Come on, Hermann, it’s not that hard,’ Newt says quietly, with a nasty, self-deprecating smirk. ‘Consider _this:_ this is my own private hell of a city, designed for fucking up the good things in my life. I’ve laid out all the data. Now you solve for X.’

There’s nothing, no word, no reaction, until suddenly, finally — Hermann freezes. And Newton feels it, _yeah_ , feels the difference because everything around seems to freeze as well. Hermann’s eyes are fixed upon him, wide and unmoving.

Then he speaks, in a voice that hardly even seems his own, ‘I must — I must be misunderstanding.’

Newton laughs, ‘Don’t think so, dude.’

‘You — but why, why would you _think_ — why —’

At that, Newton does laugh. ‘Beats me.’

Things may still be happening afterwards: things like the stunned Hermann, the Hermann at whom Newt cannot possibly _bear_ to look any second longer, trying to comprehend or say something. But Newton doesn’t care, he’s rising, fishing out his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, plucking out some money, all set to the background of the sneering song of his own brain. He looks out at the street, feeling almost, _almost_ amused, and thinks, _this is goddamned good weather for March._

‘I need some air,’ he says breezily, tossing the money onto the table right next his empty cup, not looking at Hermann, not a fucking _chance_. ‘I’ll see you around. I guess.’

_Congratulations,_ he thinks as he steps out into the cold air, feeling the wave of despair ready to crush down the very moment he loses his frail refuge in absurdity of the situation, _you did fuck up the one good thing in your life. Again._

He tells himself it’s the wind that stings in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He’s sent the rash string of messages from his phone, on the short way from the hotel room to the crowded, sunlit Stockholms Centralstation, riddled with typos and largely incoherent,

 

_i think im going away for a bit_

_theres a train and Norway sounds fun and i needed abreak nyway_

_man, sorry to dump it on you…….idk what tos ay even_

_i fucked up_

_and i hope we,ll stay in touch anyway_

_i mean_

_wouldn’t be the first time yeah?haha_

_and anyway were good at ignoring past trauma_

_well thats it, really. sorry again._

 

Almost an hour later, there he is, listening to the sound of his train leaving the point of interception with Newton and heading off heavily towards Oslo, well and entirely _without_ him on board. It’s still bright outside, sunlight sharp and assaulting through the tall windows, and the loud buzz of people has receded into milder white noise. Who’s been meant to left has left, who’s been left behind is leaving. Newt stares at his hands and feels heavier, more tired, than he remembers being in years.

_Look at me_ , he thinks glumly, _what an apocalypse won’t ruin, my own issues must. Hopeless case if anyone’s ever seen one._

The train has come and gone, and Newton’s body remained in its assumed place: the immovable object to the unstoppable force of his conscious, and Hermann would _not_ appreciate the analogy. He thinks, languidly, that he will never break this particular cycle. Whatever the hell is coming now, whatever dreadful thing will accompany the unavoidable sight of Hermann’s face, he _still_ wants to burn himself to numbness before losing the one per cent of chance of … of something else. Anything.

‘Maybe I’m just a masochist,’ Newton mutters aloud, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his fuzzy head between them.

And then he hears it, muffled as it is but nevertheless _unmistakeable_ , a familiar clattering noise and hoarse shouting, almost breathless, with an infuriating British lilt that sounds wholly out of place.

‘Sir, the train to Oslo, has it left? Has anyone stayed? Sir!’ And then there’s some reply, but the reply doesn’t even matter because Newton’s heart has stopped beating. It couldn’t — but surely not —

The clattering, closer this time. ‘ _Scheiße. Scheiße!_ ’ 

The heart resumes with a jolt, warm blood stunning Newton into movement. He rises, clumsily, almost stumbling over his own knees, dazed as though he were struck on the head.

And there he is: pale skin and dark hair, an old-fashioned rumpled coat, a cane, an unfortunate cowlick-and-undercut combination. Hermann: the only person in the world that has _ever_ mattered.

Staring forlornly at the rails, looking distraught.

‘Dude,’ Newton calls out hoarsely, _already_ desperate for whatever remaining contact he’s allowed, long before his brain manages to tell him that hey, it’s a _bad_ idea to launch himself into fire face-first, ‘what are you doing here?’

Hermann turns so rapidly his coat flaps around him, wide-eyed, half-distraught and half-manic, and fixates upon Newt.

‘Newton _,'_  he says roughly, urgently, pointing at him as though to mark the straightest line to cross towards him and launching forward.

Newt rushes into his direction quite automatically, alarmed by the determination with which Hermann is striding towards him.

‘Hermann, what are you — oh my _god_ , are you mad, what do you think you’re doing, you idiot?’

Hermann reaches him first, punctuating it with a hard poke at Newton’s chest. With his narrowed eyes and an expression of silent fury on his face, he breathes out, ‘Oh, you — don’t you _dare!_ ’

His free hand is fumbling with his coat, and suddenly it strikes Newton that the agitation goes much deeper: Hermann’s eyes are red-rimmed, his hair is dishevelled and he is breathing through his nose, clearly unhinged.

He speaks out again, haltingly, ‘Your message. I thought you’ve _left_. Left! Without a word, don’t you dare lecture me, Newton, this was — this — simply _preposterous_.’ 

‘Look,’ Newt says, eyes skittering downwards, ‘I’m sorry, okay, I fucked up—’

‘Don’t you interrupt me!’ Hermann hisses, reaching for Newton’s forearm with the hand still holding his cane. ‘I have — I tried to _chase_ you. Ah, _bloody hell_.’

He shuts his eyes briefly, still gripping Newton’s arm, white-faced, breathing unevenly — and Newt feels almost sick with self-loathing.

‘No, I didn’t leave, I wouldn’t, I’m —’ he stammers, shifting his position to support Hermann, who gives him a nondescript half-lidded look — which may signal _anything_ from direst contempt to shrewd understanding, as far as Newt is concerned. ‘I’m an absolute fucking _idiot_ , yeah, but I … ah, we’re well past that shit, Hermann, well past _leaving_. And look, I’m sorry. About the … this isn’t _new_ or anything, you know? I just blew up. So you can … calm down, Horatio. Leave me to my existential crisis that won’t lead to anything. Which, I realise, sounds so fucking _flippant_ , I’m … I’m sorry, I suck at this. But nothing changes, I swea —’

Hermann cuts in, abruptly, in perfect lilting intonation, ‘ _Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,’_ he pauses, smiles a tight-lipped, self-deprecating smile he reaches to the inside pocket of his coat. _‘Here’s yet some liquor left._ ”

Newt laughs faintly, feeling an odd involuntary flush rise in his cheek at the startling edge to Hermann’s words.

‘Aw, man, trust you to outwit me with handy _Shakespeare_ ,’ he mutters, striving for airy, but trailing off feebly at sight of the crumpled piece of paper Hermann finally yanks out of his coat; scattered with slanting handwriting. ‘What’s that?’

‘I — wrote you a letter,’ Hermann says quietly, ‘before we even came here, back in Hong Kong. I thought … I do _not_ know what I was thinking. For all intends and purposes, nothing _was_ to be salvaged from that particular, age-old delusion, what with the bookend we appeared to have made eight years prior. I am … hardly a man of many delusions, Newton. I was no less _aware_ of the state of matters than you were. And still — still, perhaps spurred on by the drift and whatever barest hint of possibility I could have hoped to find there, I held out hope. I’ve all but convinced myself that I would have the courage to — to — but then, of course, we were _here_ , and all it brought about was an uprooting of any and all stability. What I mean to say is — you, Newton, are decisively not the only one affected by this place. I am just much less capable of expressing it.’

He falls silent, staring at the letter. Hoarsely, whole body vibrating along to eachheartbeat, Newt stutters out, ‘Wait. What are you …’

Hermann is silent for a moment, and then picks up, eyes downcast. His voice grows uncharacteristically rushed and soft. ‘And then … _you_ happened, of course, the perpetual unpredicted variable of my existence, disrupting the balance even more. You’re wrong to think I meant you any harm. And I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. Because _why_ would you — why on Earth — would you still care for this? But I have — _loved_ you for so long, that you must understand, with even chance of you meaning what I thought, any alternative to seeking you out this instant turned suddenly unbearable. So tell me.’

‘Oh,’ Newt says, blood rushing to his head, _singing_ , so utterly, utterly dizzying he feels high, absolutely high, ‘oh _fuck_ , Hermann, are you saying what I think you’re saying — **’**

But Hermann hushes him in a way that is thoroughly disarming: reaching up with his hand to touch Newt’s lips. He doesn’t meet his eyes, clearly resolute to follow through with his inquisition before hearing the verdict.

‘No — wait. I still need to — _you_ need to listen to _me_.’ Hermann’s hand is shaking, when it travels back down to fumble with the letter — until suddenly he stills, breathing unevenly, for what feels like a whole eternity. He looks up. 

‘I wrote,’ he says, voice suddenly steady. ‘But, ah, it all just comes down to one thing, doesn’t it? You, on the verge of leaving. Leaving somewhere, anywhere. And you cannot. That’s a simple fact: this mustn’t be a circle, I _refuse_ … we … I wasn’t even aware _we_ were a possibility still. So, goddamn it, Newton, I am not letting you go. You’re going to stay here. And if, if you _must go_ , because of some goddamned ticket or some such, I’ll go _with_ you. Schedule compatibility be damned.’  

_(‘I’ll go with you.’_

_‘You’re serious. Y-you would do that for me — I, I mean,_ with _me?)_

Newton is pretty sure he’s staring, in the worst round-eyed funny way, the way that makes it look like Hermann is the world’s eighth fucking wonder — and the whole point, the whole unbelievable and massive point is that he _is_ , or at least he is to _Newton_ , but does anything else even matter?

He feels lighter, somehow, not entirely tethered to the ground, like a stray wisp of that blinding sunlight has slithered its way under Newt’s skin, lending him a whole new perspective, a whole new clarity: Hermann’s face and hands and serious eyes and slanting shoulders, so close and well known, and yet apparently so long misread, rendered suddenly touchable. It’s so dizzying Newton doesn’t know how to proceed, what to _do_ , not by far. He stares, breathing — and it’s far from being a waste, because he _learns_ this moment to the smallest speck of dust and crease of Hermann’s skin, to the wrinkles in his uncannily haphazard tie. They have come full circle, yeah, older and stranger, battered and weary, but for some reason, the need for reversal of time dies away. _No_ , he would not have it another way, not even earlier, not even younger, only like this, here, to feel — _finally_ — that everything in their circular and lonely way was in the end purposeful.

Unable to stand the stillness any longer, spurred on by all the singing mess that hails inside his head and ribcage, Newt moves forward and presses a kiss into the surprised line of Hermann’s lips, fleeting, almost chaste. Then he pulls Hermann closer, tension relenting jerkily from his body as he blinks furiously and clutches, tighter and _tighter_ , pushes his face into the scarce bit of warmed-up skin that pokes out from under the layers of clothing. And Hermann’s arms _do_ close around him, a firm grip that is — he finally sees — just as desperate, just as scared.

‘Don’t go,’ Hermann is saying, stupidly, like he doesn’t yet _realise_ that he is not getting rid of Newton for another goddamned _eternity_. ‘Please don’t go.’

‘Shut up, I’m not _going_ anywhere, you idiot,’ Newt manages finally, damply, clinging even more, ‘I love you. You’re such an idiot.’

‘Good, yes,’ Hermann says shakily, exhaling, and clutching at Newton’s jacket in turn. ‘Good. You are, _too_.’

* * *

 

 _Was there_  
_no one else?_   His hands keep turning into  
birds, and his hands keep flying away  
from him. _Eventually the birds must land._

_–_ Richard Siken _, _Unfinished Duet__

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was my way of astral projecting into Stockholm more or less exactly as I remember it so forgive me all the self-indulgent half-assed semi-accuracy.
> 
> Also, each and every person who shares their thought with me has my undying devotion. <3


End file.
